


Fatal Flaw

by Amber_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Eyeball Handling, Assassins and Snipers, BAMF Molly Hooper, Because Assassins and Ninjas Are Cool, Character Death, Implied Relationships, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Rosie is a Ninja, Ten-Year-Olds Handling Severed Heads and Eyeballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber_Lee/pseuds/Amber_Lee
Summary: Set 13 years after the end of Season 4, Rosie finds her whole life turned upside down when her home is destroyed, her best friend is killed, and someone she has always trusted stabs her in the back.





	1. It Started With An Explosion

It started with an explosion.

221C was obliterated. 221B was left floorless and with a blackened ceiling. 221A was virtually untouched, but for precautionary reasons, no one went in there. There was always a chance that the floor would collapse under their feet.

Fortunately, all of the residents of 221B were on a case, and 221C was unoccupied, likely because of the “Curse of the Basements,” as the late Mrs. Hudson called it. That was probably how the bomb got in there in the first place, and honestly, it didn’t surprise anyone. Someone had snuck a pair of old shoes down there before, and Sherlock was a constant target for attempted murder.

When the threesome returned to find police swarming around the remains of their home, reactions were mixed. For John and Sherlock, coming to the flat to find it destroyed was simply a fact of life.

For Rosie, however, it was not. She sucked in a breath and put her hands over her mouth in horror. Her heart thumped in her chest. Had someone died? Were they being targeted? Why? Was it going to happen again? Her thoughts, though she had many questions, were moving sluggishly with shock. For as many horrible things as she’d seen, there was nothing quite like finding your home, where you grew up, a place that was attached to so many memories and feelings, destroyed.

Her father groaned. “Again?”

“Yes, John, again. I’m going to have a word with the landlady.” Sherlock swiftly made his way into the throng and disappeared.

“She has a name, you know!” John called after him, rolling his eyes.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Rosie asked, moving closer to him.

He frowned. “I don’t really know. I mean, this isn’t the first time this has happened. But I can’t think of anyone who could possibly want to blow us up. Stay here, I’m going to see what Sherlock’s up to.”

Naturally, Rosie didn’t stay. She followed him to where Sherlock and the landlady were talking.

Compared to Sherlock’s six feet in height, Miss Hudson was tiny. She was an attractive, smart-looking young woman with bright golden eyes and curly, shoulder-length, dark hair. She spoke slowly and deliberately, her eyes searching for something unseen in the distance as she attempted to recall a memory.

“. . . shopping. But I think I remember hearing something creak on the steps right before I left. I dismissed it as just the wood settling, that’s it. I haven’t given the keys to anyone and no, there are no copies of this key except this one. It was in my pocket the whole time. They had to have come in from somewhere else or the bomb didn’t come from 221C. Anything else?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “No, thank you. I’ll just go in and take a look for myself.” He made to leave, but John stopped him in his tracks.

“Sherlock, exercise a bit of caution, will you?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know. It could still be dangerous. I just don’t want you to get killed, and the best way for you to avoid dying is to be careful.”

“If they had wanted to kill me, they would have waited until I was home to set off the first bomb. No, John, this is a message.”

“They’re sending you a message by blowing up our flat?”

“Well, it certainly got my attention, didn’t it?”

“At least let me come with you,” John said in a voice that displayed just how disappointed he was at being wrong again.

“And me,” Rosie piped up.

“Mary!” John exclaimed, only just realizing that she had followed him.

“ _Rosamund_ Mary.”

“Right. I thought I told you to stay.”

“I’m not a dog. And anyway, I live there too.”

“The girl has a point, John. Let her come. She’ll be fine,” Sherlock assured him.

John made a face and mumbled something about raising a child.

Sherlock, John, and Rosie pushed their way past the policemen and the caution tape and picked their way up the half-missing flights of stairs to 221B.

Rosie saw it first, having led them up the stairs. She screamed, and it came out strangled by her horror. A dead body, the body of a young girl, had been propped against the wall. She sat on a narrow outcropping of floor that still remained near the doorway into the kitchen. A stream of blood dribbled from her mouth, and bruises covered her face, distorting her features. On her forehead, four words had been scrawled on an attached post-it note in red ink.

_Did you miss me?_

Rosie made another horrified shrieking noise and promptly spilled the contents of her breakfast onto the scorched floorboards. John put a protective arm around her and covered her eyes.

“Dad…” she said in a ragged whisper, “That’s Emilie.”

“Oh my God… I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

“Who’s Emilie?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock! Emilie’s Rosie’s friend from school!”

“Oh.” Sherlock, for once, looked embarrassed. “She was smart. I liked her.”

“It’s not like you would let her _have_ any dumb friends,” John muttered. Then he continued, at normal volume, “Who would _do_ this?”

“Oh, any number of people,” Sherlock replied. “It seems like every criminal mind in London wants to kill me.” He was trying to keep up his nonchalant manner, but it was clear that something was bothering him. His eyes darted around as he took in the scene and made his deductions, but he was biting at his lower lip, a sure sign of his agitation.

“Is it--Could it be Moriarty?” Rosie asked through ragged breaths and tears.

“Moriarty’s dead. It’s an imposter. Now, Rosie, what do you observe about the body?”

“Sherlock! That’s her dead friend you’re asking her to examine!” John exclaimed.

“No it’s--it’s fine,” Rosie said, moving closer. She took in a breath. “Well, Emilie--she--the body--isn’t burned or anything, so she was put there _after_ the explosion, _after_ the police looked at the flat. The murderer is trying to scare you but not hurt you yet, which means… something else is coming… There wasn’t a struggle, because there are no bruises anywhere but her face, but the murderer is trying to make it look like there was. She must have been asleep when she was captured. She was suffocated and then beat, or… maybe she was beat and then suffocated…”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, there wasn’t a struggle, but not because she was asleep. I think she was caught by surprise, because the last time she was seen alive was this morning, by you, and, unless I am mistaken, she was not prone to midday naps. She likely went home and then was ambushed, caught from behind,” he demonstrated with his hands, “and then knocked out with one blow, or perhaps with chloroform or some other sedative, because no one expects to be attacked in their own home.”

“ _We_ should, though,” John said.

Sherlock shot him a look. “She was with you this morning, so when she arrived at home after, that was most likely when she was ambushed, especially since the killer is watching us and would have seen John pick up Rosie. Seeing that Rosie had a close friend that I like who is untrained and unawares, they found a perfect opportunity to get under our skin.”

“But--”

“Shh, John. So, this person is watching us, but how? It must have been someone who has access to our flat or our services, so perhaps a client, Mycroft, or a member of Scotland Yard. I wouldn’t entirely rule out Eurus either. But Mycroft wouldn’t sink to this level to get our attention, so it was either Scotland Yard or a client. Now, Emilie’s body was placed here after the explosion, and the only ones who have been here are Scotland Yard and us. I’m willing to bet that neither of _you_ did this, so… it must have been someone who works for Scotland Yard… But who would have a motive?”

“Most of them hate you because you’re so rude to them, or because you solve all of their cases for them and then act all arrogant about it. I’m not surprised, Sherlock,” John said.

“Yes, but who would _kill_ to get back at me?”

“Or maybe they’re trying to impress you by being clever,” John suggested. “How many of them have you been in contact with recently?”

“Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, that smart rookie kid…” Sherlock trailed off.

“You mean Jones?”

“Yes, Jones.”

“Is that it?”

“They’re the only ones who have been in the flat, because the rest of them can’t stand me.”

“Well, Donovan hates you and Anderson and Jones would probably like to impress you.”

“Hm… But none of them would _murder_ , would they?”

“Anderson’s pretty psychotic,” Rosie said.

“Let’s keep an open mind,” Sherlock said, “We need more information. This could be something we haven’t seen before. Be alert. We’ve seen on several occasions that the hardest murderers to catch and the ones who strike the hardest are the ones who hide in plain sight.”

“You think they might try to hurt us?” John asked.

“Not me, probably not you, but Rosie… Rosie is who I’m worried for.”

Rosie turned and vomited again. The shock was really hitting her this time. “I--I can’t. I can’t stay here.” She fled down the stairs and escaped onto the street.

Nobody seemed to notice her. In a blur of shock and grief, she was vaguely aware of her father saying something to her as she leaned against the side of a not-destroyed building, and Sherlock saying something, and then everybody swarming around her and then all moving towards the entrance to the flat, looking for the body. She mumbled something about calling Emilie’s parents, and John said something about a funeral, and then Rosie cried, and was ushered into a cab. She and her father rode, but she didn’t register anything, just that they eventually reached the dwellings of Molly Hooper and she was led to a bed.

She slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sheridan_Hope for being my beta reader and helping me edit and format everything!


	2. Memories

When Rosie awoke, she found that she was not in her own bed, and started, before the events of yesterday returned to her and she remembered that this was the guest bedroom in Molly Hooper’s house that she’d stayed in so many times before.

A sick feeling returned to her stomach, and she was overcome with an incredible sadness. Emilie, the only close friend she’d ever had, was dead. Emilie, with her sarcastic sense of humor. Emilie, who was fearless and intimidated by large words alone.

Emilie, who had accepted Rosie for who she was, despite her family history and all of her eccentricities.

They had loved each other like sisters.

Rosie had seen a lot of death. In her household, it was almost inevitable. And she’d learned, under Sherlock’s tutelage, not to let it affect her too much. She had nightmares, sometimes, and it wasn’t that she didn’t feel anything at all -- she was a very compassionate and empathetic person -- but she handled it a lot better than most.

The death of Emilie, though, was different. She had known Emilie.

Rosie’s mind flashed back to the first time they’d met. It was only three years ago, in the fifth grade. They hadn’t attended the same school at that time. Rosie’s ended earlier than Emilie’s, so she’d gotten home that afternoon and left to run an errand for the ever-busy Sherlock. John was at work, and would never have let her if he’d been there. On her way home from Bart’s Hospital, plastic shopping bag in hand, her path crossed Emilie’s, who had just stepped off the school bus and was walking to her own flat.

Rosie had grown accustomed, in recent months, to running secret errands for Sherlock when her father wasn’t at home. This one was by far one of the most straightforward, but it was by no means any less strange than any other errand she’d run. In fact, it was probably the most disgusting errand she’d ever had. She tried not to think about what was in the bag, wrapped in layers of fabric, but it was hard.

She distracted herself by looking around and employing Sherlock’s methods to make deductions about her surroundings. Lost in thought, she was startled when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked down for the briefest moment to glance at Sherlock’s text.

Someone slammed into her with a yelp, pitching forward and reaching for Rosie’s shoulders for support. The plastic bag slipped out of her hand and two objects rolled out. The first, a full jar, shattered on impact, scattering the contents everywhere. The second was a round-ish item wrapped in a cloth, which was quickly unraveling on the pavement.

“I’m sorry, I tripped on my shoelace and--Is that a _head_?!” The girl who had run into Rosie exclaimed as she straightened her backpack. “And--Oh--” she retched. “Are those eyeballs?”

Rosie was too busy chasing after the head, which was quickly making its way towards the street, to answer _yes, of course they are_ , and make some excuse as to why an ten-year-old girl was carrying a severed head and a jar of eyeballs on the street alone at four in the afternoon.

“Who _are_ you?” The girl continued.

Rosie was vaguely surprised that she hadn’t run away yet.

“Why do you have eyeballs?”

Rosie silently rewrapped the head, wondering what she was going to do about said eyeballs. Sherlock wouldn’t be too happy about them having touched the sidewalk.

“Do you need help?”

The offer was tempting, but frankly, other children scared Rosie.

But this other child… this one seemed nice.

“I can… pick up some eyeballs for you if you want.”

Would Sherlock be okay with this other child handling his eyeballs?

This clumsy, dirty, other child with bubblegum in her ponytail?

“Here,” Rosie said, handing her the now fully covered head. “Hold this, and I will pick up the eyeballs.” One by one, the eyeballs went into the plastic bag. When she finished, she took the head from Emilie and gave a curt thanks.

Rosie left.

That night, Rosie thought about the other girl nonstop. This was a girl who did not feel the need to bully her. She did not seem weirded out (mostly) by her. She did not seem scared or intimidated by her. She had wanted to help Rosie.

The next day, Rosie was there at the same time, only without any bags. She was there for Emilie, and when she arrived and spotted Rosie there, waiting for her, she stopped, and they talked.

They had been friends ever since.

Rosie sat up in the bed. A single tear slid down her cheek. She pulled her knees up to her chest and laid her chin on them, rocking as much as was possible in a bed.

She sat like this for a while, until she realized that she was famished and needed breakfast. Slipping out of bed, she noticed that she was only wearing an overlarge t-shirt and that she had no memory of putting it on. The night before was hazy, clouded by grief.

The tiles were cold under Rosie’s feet as she progressed into the tiny kitchen, sending a shock into her system. It was dark, and the only sign that anyone had been there before her was a plate and an empty mug abandoned in the sink. The clock over the stove told her that it was nine in the morning. Molly and John would already have left for work, leaving her alone in the house. She didn’t know where Sherlock was, but he certainly wasn’t here.

After buttering some toast and sitting down at the kitchen table, Rosie pulled out her phone. In situations like this, when she was left alone here or at home, she usually read a book or called Emilie. But Emilie was dead, and all of Rosie’s possessions had been left at the flat, if not burned. Rosie sucked in a deep breath to keep herself from crying again. She was emotionally broken today.

So she texted Sherlock. The obvious choice for emotional help.

_Where are you?_

His reply came almost immediately.

_On a case. SH_

_On a case? Now?_

_Why not? SH_

_Your house just burned down!_

_Your father is at work too, Watson. SH_

Then, some seconds later: _I need your help. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. SH_

There was no arguing with that. Rosie always came, whether she wanted to or not. She came even when her father didn’t want her to. So really, there was just no arguing with Sherlock.

Rosie rushed back into the guest bedroom, grateful for the distraction, leaving her toast half-eaten on the table, and hastily dressed from the stash of emergency clothes always left hanging in the closet for her. All the while, she wondered what the case was. She supposed it was an ongoing case; there was nowhere for incoming clients to go, and there had been no time for them to come either. She didn’t know of all of the current cases -- even John wasn’t always up to speed on everything -- but she had been fully informed about several, the most intriguing to her being the case of a man found handless and dead on the roof of a hotel, and some poor woman whose entire family had been murdered around her while she slept, their throats slit. Sherlock hadn’t said anything about leaving this morning, but then again, Rosie hadn’t been in the best state last night, and Sherlock wasn’t very communicative anyway.

As promised, Sherlock appeared at Molly’s front door five minutes later, texting as he waited for her to pull on her combat boots, still covered in dust from the day before.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked in a rare moment of tenderness as they climbed into the car he had borrowed (or perhaps stolen) from Lestrade, noting her very melancholy attitude.

“My best friend in the whole world was just murdered, but other than that, I’m okay,” Rosie said, trying for a small smile. She didn’t want to seem weak. She knew Sherlock’s views on sentimentality, and she didn’t want him to think of her the same way he did everyone else.

Sherlock said nothing for a while; he just squared his jaw and turned distant, as if he was remembering something. He probably was. Rosie’s father had told her many things about his time with Sherlock before she was born. He had always put up a pretense that he had no feelings. He still did. But before, he said, Sherlock had been unable to confront his own humanity. After Rosie’s birth, and the incident with his older sister months later, he’d softened and opened up a little, according to John. This, the death of Rosie’s best and only friend, struck a nerve with Sherlock. One of the reasons why he had become the way he had -- cold, shielding himself from feeling -- was to protect himself from the same heartbreak he had felt when his own best friend had been murdered by Eurus when he was little.

Perhaps he thought that she was going to end up the same way, Rosie thought for a fleeting moment. She pushed that thought aside.

Some minutes later, they arrived at their destination, and Rosie almost wished she’d slept longer.

“Sherlock, I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Sheridan_Hope!


	3. Dead

It was Emilie’s flat.

Sherlock cast her a curious look.

“Not so soon. I can’t. Don’t pretend like you don’t know!”

He glanced away.

“Please, take me back.”

“No,” he said, half-whispering and slightly incredulous.

“You can’t expect me to just be okay. It’s not--I’m not--I’m not you. Okay?”

“Come inside with me. Please. We need to go in while everything’s still fresh.”

“Why do you need me?”

“Because you knew her.” Rosie gasped and threw her arms up. “I can’t win with you! It’s not okay! I’m not ready, so you’ll just have to go in there yourself! You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, you’ll figure it out.”

“You sound like your father.”

Rosie rolled her eyes.

“Do you want to figure out who killed her or not, Watson?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d _love_ to avenge her. But I _can’t_ go in there yet.”

“Fine.” He climbed out of the car.

Ten minutes later, Rosie’s burning curiosity overtook her, and she buzzed in. Sherlock let her in without a word, but he looked somewhat smug, as if he had known that she would eventually give in, which he probably had. He led her towards Emilie’s mother’s bedroom, glancing through doorways into other rooms as he went. When he reached her door, he knocked. There was no answer.

“You haven’t been in there yet?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I talked to Lestrade after you and John left. He hadn’t seen the body yet, but I took him up there and we investigated a bit. Then he tried to get in contact with Emilie’s mother, to tell her, you know, see what she knew about it and how she might have been involved. But we couldn’t. What happened to Emilie’s mom? That’s where we need to start.” He pushed open the door.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Rosie gasped, putting a hand over her mouth and turning away.

There was Emilie’s mom, bound to a chair and gagged, bruised and bloodied almost in the same way as Emilie herself.

Dead.

Sherlock, apparently unsurprised, grunted and moved towards her. Examined her matted hair. Examined the bruises. Examined the chair, the bed, and the floor, like a hound sniffing out a scent.

“What do you observe?” he asked her.

“Again? First with Emilie, now with her mom--seriously, I--You know what, never mind. I still don’t understand why I’m important, but--” She sucked in a breath. “Okay, she’s… she’s like Emilie. She has the same fake struggle signs. There were…” She searched the floor and noticed faint traces of muddy footprints on the wood, “Three--no, four people in here around the same time. Two of them stood over by the chair for a while. One of them -- Emilie’s mom -- was dragged in here rather harshly, and she tried to fight off her attackers, who happened to be the same ones who stood by the chair. I’m assuming the last set of footprints is Emilie’s, because they’re smaller but they stop--oh God, she must have been attacked right here by one of her mom’s kidnappers, because the footprints lead right up to hers and then hers stop, and oh--there’s blood on the floor. Oh, Jesus.”

“Mmm…” Sherlock was… smiling. At her. “I’ve taught you rather well, if I may say so myself.”

“There’s a dead woman right there, and you’re _smiling_. And thinking about how well you’ve taught me.”

“Although you do take after your father quite a bit, don’t you?”

“I’d like to think so. Oh, Jesus,” she said, a bout of dizziness and nausea overcoming her. She leaned on the doorway for support. “I don’t like any of this business.”

“Of course not. It’s your best friend.”

“Oh, so _now_ you understand? _Now_ you have feelings?”

“I know what it’s like to lose your best friend. I know what it’s like to be alone.”

Silence.

Then, “Rosie, you didn’t look at the back of the chair.”

“What?”

“Look at the back of the chair.”

Rosie slowly walked around the body and looked. There was another post-it note on the back of the chair, partially covered by Emilie’s mother’s filthy black hair. Rosie reached out and swept off some of the hair, setting it over the dead woman’s shoulder.

_You really did miss me_. _I know you did_.

“Oh…”

“Now the back of the post-it,” Sherlock said.

Rosie flipped it up.

_You need me, Sherlock. Without me, you are nothing_.

“Oh, God.”

“He said that to me once, in the sitting room at 221B. Right before he threatened to kill me.”

“Jesus. How could this person, this impersonator, possibly know that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Now, come back here, and I’ll show you everything you missed.”

Rosie came back to the doorway where her godfather stood.

“First of all, we have two killers. You got that part right. One is small, one is much larger. Both boot prints are exactly the same size, but one has steps that don’t match the shoe size. In addition, some of the steps turn at awkward angles. Conclusion, at least one of the killers is wearing a shoe that belongs to someone else in order to throw me off. Secondly, Emilie’s mother fought until the very end. You can see deep gouges in the floor where the legs of the chair dug into it, and marks there where they hit the wall.”

“Sherlock, if they -- the killer, I mean -- were wearing someone else’s shoes, does that mean that they think it’s likely you’ll recognize their shoe?”

“Quite possibly, yes.”

“They seem to be doing a lot of really obvious things to mislead you.”

“On purpose. Makes it harder to focus on the little things, the stuff that really matters.”

“Red herrings.”

“Exactly, Watson.”

“So what have we gained from this?” Rosie asked. “What’s the next step?”

“Now we know the approximate height, gait, and walking speed of the killers. We also might gather from the mud samples from the footprints where the boots may have come from, and finding the owner of the boots might help us.”

“So…?”

“So we tell Lestrade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered calling this chapter "Oh, Jesus." Thanks to Sheridan_Hope for talking me out of it.


	4. Old Tricks

“So you’re telling me that we have two bombers, and at least one of them was there fifteen years ago when Moriarty had tea with you?”

“Yes. And it was seventeen years ago, not fifteen.”

Lestrade ignored this last comment. He was sitting at his desk with his feet up on its surface. His arms were crossed, and he looked skeptical. “Who else could have been there? John? Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “She’s dead.”

Lestrade took his feet off of the table and set them on the floor. He fixed his eyes on his shoes. “Right, yeah.”

There was a pause, and then Lestrade said, “Didn’t Eurus have cameras on you at some point? Charles Magnussen--”

“Also dead.”

More pause. More silence.

Static. Actual, audible static from Lestrade’s intercom. Someone was calling for him, and they sounded frantic.

“Inspector Lestrade, you need to come down here, now--”

“Freak, there’s a call for you,” Sergeant Donovan came in, grumbling, and Rosie couldn’t hear the rest of what was being said on Lestrade’s intercom, but she saw him turn white.

 

 _“If you say…_ anything, _John will… die.”_

_Sherlock swallowed the questions he wanted to ask. The voice on the other end of the line was an unfamiliar male voice, and it was halting, and Sherlock suspected that these were not the caller’s own words._

_“John… is very sick… he collapsed… at work today.”_

_This whole trick was very much familiar to Sherlock. It had been used by Moriarty almost twenty years ago._

_“He… was poisoned… with a very… rare poison that has… a little known… antidote.  If you want… the antidote… and… if you want… this man… to be set free…  go back… to 221B… at… midnight.”_

_There was a pause, and Sherlock made to hang up._

_But there was one more sentence uttered, that Sherlock barely heard._

_“Come armed… and with… Mary… Watson.”_

_There was no way Sherlock would bring Rosie._

 

“I have to go to Bart’s,” Sherlock said, handing the phone back to Donovan.

Lestrade stood up. “Me too.”

“What, why?” Rosie asked, following the tail of her godfather’s coat as he rushed out the door into the hall.

Sherlock stopped and looked at Rosie. His blue eyes were troubled and stormy, and he seemed to be trying to convey some secret meaning through them.

“John is in trouble.”

“What, how?” Rosie gasped.

“I’ll explain in the car.”

He didn’t. He was silent and distant the whole time. This was one of the few instances in which Sherlock’s inconsistency in communication and his secrecy irritated Rosie. He couldn’t even bother to tell her anything when the life of her own father was on the line.

When they reached the hospital, Molly was there, on break from her duties at the morgue. She was ashen-faced and pale, and her eyes were rimmed with red. She took them to John’s ward, where they found him, unconscious, on a hospital bed. Rosie rushed to his side and took his hand, hot and sweaty and limp. Sherlock, too, stood on the other side, looking into his face.

“What exactly happened?” he asked.

“He--He just passed out at work. He wouldn’t ring in, wouldn’t answer calls or anything, so someone went in to check on him. And there he was, unconscious. He was kind of red, and really hot and feverish, as you can--as you can see. Um, we think it was poison that did this to him, but we don’t know how it could have gotten into his system, and we’re unsure of exactly what kind of poison was used as of yet.”

“How long until he wakes up?”

Molly made a face. “We can’t tell, Sherlock. He’s comatose, we don’t have any way to know that yet.”

Sherlock leaned in closer to John’s face, their noses almost touching, his eyes scanning.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosie saw Molly stiffen.

Then he made a small noise and motioned for Rosie to come around. She did, and he pointed to a spot on John’s neck.

“What?” Rosie couldn’t see anything there.

“ _Look,_ ” Sherlock said, “Use your _eyes,_ Rosie. Do you see the red dot? It looks like someone stabbed him with a needle.”

“That could have been anything. It’s probably not important,” Lestrade groaned from near the door.

Sherlock turned sharply towards him.

“You’ve been working with me for twenty-five years, _Griffin_. You should know by now that _everything_ is important in a case.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Only the police are arrogant enough to ignore anything that’s not slapping them in the face or _shooting_ at them.”

“It's _Greg,_ " Lestrade sighed, sounding defeated. He then barreled onward to fire a shot of his own. "And maybe so, but the arrogant, ignorant police can at least _hear._ "

“Did you take any blood tests?” Sherlock asked Molly, ignoring him.

“Yes, one, but there was a technical problem and we didn’t get anything out of it. We’re going to do another.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “Good. Let me know what you find.” They were quiet for a while, and Sherlock’s eyes remained trained on John, but for the first time he looked like he was seeing John instead of a case.

That, at least, reassured Rosie a little bit, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t going to rest until John was revived and his attacker dead or jailed. Sherlock was a powerful force, especially when the lives of the people he loved were in jeopardy.

“Who was John’s last patient?” he asked, suddenly.

Lestrade straightened, jolted out of his thoughts. “Yeah, um, we don’t know.”

“Have you even checked?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

Sherlock and Rosie simultaneously rolled their eyes.

“Twenty-five years?” Sherlock breathed.

Rosie snorted, but turned her attention back to her unconscious father. Her mood turned somber again. Her father lay there, still. Unmoving. Face red. Swollen, just a little. It gave her shivers to see him like that, and she was doing her best not to break down on the spot.

The past twenty-four hours had been the worst and most emotionally straining, the hardest and most tiring, of Rosie’s existence.

Her best friend had just died, and the very thought made Rosie want to burst into tears.

And now her father was in the hospital, attached to a machine, on the verge of death.

Who would do this to her family?

And _why?_

Rosie wanted to punch something, but refrained from doing so. Instead, she sighed, and thought about how best to handle the situation from this point. _What would Sherlock do?_ _How would Sherlock approach this?_

He would separate himself from his feelings. Separate himself from the situation. The emotion, the physical act of _caring,_ clouded his judgement, as he was very keen on repeating to her. Obviously, Rosie couldn’t stop caring about her father or her best friend, but she could sure as hell try, and what little it helped, if it helped… well, it was something, at least.

Another deep breath. An attempt to steel herself, and build a copy of that wall that she’d always seen around Sherlock, the one she’d tried to penetrate so many times.

She could never be like him.

More deep breaths. Sherlock was studying her now. He looked… almost disappointed. But also understanding.

In a fit of emotion, Rosie threw herself at the bed, clasping her father tightly, burying her face into the crook of his neck. She let out a guttural sob. She couldn’t do it. Not anymore. Not with Emilie. Not with 221B. Now, not with her father. She couldn’t be invincible. Her foundation was cracked. She couldn’t build up any stable walls on a cracked foundation; the things she meant to keep out would dig down underneath, through the holes, and bring the whole structure -- if one could call it that -- crumbling down around her.

Rosie felt a hand on her shoulder, soft and surprisingly comforting. It was Sherlock, pulling her away, pulling her into his coat, and hugging her. This was new. Sherlock didn’t hug people. Perhaps the shared fear for John softened him a little; in any case, it was nice, and Rosie sank into him, soaking his clothes with her tears.

Sherlock awkwardly stroked her hair.

She cried, and didn’t notice when Lestrade and Molly left them alone, the three of them, the dysfunctional family of social outcasts brought together by love and tragedy and loss.

“Rosie,” Sherlock murmured, eventually, “We need to solve this. We need to make a plan, and we can’t do that if we’re breaking down crying all the time, okay?”

Rosie laughed blubberingly into his shirt.

“We’re going to solve this.”

She looked up, into his eyes, finding reassurance in the confidence she saw there.

Confidence in her, or confidence in himself?

“How can you be so sure?” she asked, thinking he would say something about how smart he was. Instead he said nothing, and there were secrets hidden in his features.

Something occurred to her then, and she detached herself from Sherlock to allow for smoother conversation. “Who was that call from, at the police station?”

Sherlock looked away, and quickly changed the subject. “We should leave. Standing here isn’t helping us.”

“Sherlock, who called you?”

“Where are Molly and Lestrade?” He made for the door, but Rosie stood in front of it.

“Stop, please. What are you not telling me?”

Sherlock did stop, and looked at her for what felt like a long time. Then he took in a sharp breath, and slowly let it out. “I don’t know who called me. But they were… they were using someone else’s voice to speak to me. Asked me to go home at midnight to collect the antidote for John. Otherwise, he’s going to die.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“What do you mean?”

“What else are you keeping from me? He’s my father, you know, he’s important to me too.”

“I know. They… they asked me to bring you. Well, technically, your mother, but I assumed they meant you.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. But you’re not going.”

“Oh, yes I am.”

“It’ll be dangerous.”

“Yeah, so? I can handle dangerous, and you might not get the antidote if I’m not there. You might need me. I’ve been on dangerous cases before.”

“This is different.”

“No it’s not. It’s a case, just like any other.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “No, it’s not. It’s different.”

“For heaven’s sake! My dad is dying, let me help!”

“Let’s take a taxi back to Molly’s flat, and then I’ll think about it.” But he had already made up his mind. Obviously.


	5. Confession

The cab ride back to Molly’s was less than exciting. They sat in sullen silence. Rosie stared out the window, breath fogging up the glass. She halfheartedly traced little patterns in it with her finger. Sherlock curled himself up into a little ball, knees drawn close to his chest, face buried in the navy depths of his scarf.

He wasn’t just thinking. He was _nervous._ Rosie didn’t know if that made her feel better about herself or worse about the whole situation. Sherlock was rarely nervous, so anything that shook his confidence was really a cause for worry.

Rosie tried to push away the thoughts and focus on being helpful, but her brain was quickly filling with a blank numbness that she felt might consume her entire body. She felt heavy and dull.

She must have fallen asleep somehow, because suddenly Sherlock was shaking her awake. They had arrived at Molly’s flat, and no one was waiting for them. As they entered and the lights flickered on, Rosie was once again struck with a sudden blow of loneliness. Even Sherlock’s familiar presence could not ease her, because he wasn’t really there at all. Not anymore.

They didn’t speak. The only thing Rosie could do was wait, so she headed into the guest room and flopped down onto the bed.

She was not going to let Sherlock go back home alone, no matter how much he insisted. She would follow behind him or jump into the boot of his car if she needed to, though if she was going to remain undetected she would have to make a careful plan.

Glad to have something with which to occupy her mind, she set to work, laying out clothes and the right shoes and gloves, searching the flat for the hidden gun Rosie knew Molly owned (being friends with Sherlock was dangerous), and packing her small satchel with extra supplies and potential weapons. She knew Sherlock would want to walk, because he no longer had full trust in cab drivers when it came to missions such as this, especially since Moriarty was possibly concerned, so she planned to give him a few minutes’ head start and then climb to the roof of the building so she could see him from above and follow him on the rooftops, where it would be harder for her to be seen if he looked behind him. She did consider allowing him full time to arrive before setting on his trail, so she wouldn’t risk being caught, but ruled that out because they needed each other for protection whether they were willing to admit it or not.

She wished Emilie were there, because she would have loved to help.

_Be strong. Don’t cry. Focus on the task at hand because crying clouds your judgement._

Rosie hoped Sherlock hadn’t taken notice of her preparation. He had stretched out on the couch in the main room and stayed there, fingers steepled under his chin, thinking, sometimes with eyes closed as if he was asleep, sometimes with his eyes open and darting around the room. Rosie was sure he had seen her rushing about, but whether or not he had deduced her intentions was unclear.

Around eight o'clock in the evening, Rosie realized she hadn’t eaten anything but the toast she’d had for breakfast, and she was starving. Searching through the refrigerator for some leftovers or other foodstuffs, she found some sandwich ingredients and fixed herself and Sherlock each a sandwich.

Sherlock obliged when she asked him to come sit with her at the table, but refused to touch his meal. He resumed his thinking position with his elbows on the table. His eyes bored holes into Rosie while she ate.

“Sherlock?”

He issued a sound from the back of his throat, indicating he was listening.

“Sherlock, you haven’t eaten anything all day. It’s not healthy.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, you’ve been living with me for thirteen years. You know that I do it all the time because eating slows me down. I need to be at the top of my game tonight.”

“I understand that, but it’s not all the time that my dad is comatose in the hospital.”

“Are you _worried_ about me?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Yes, I am. I’m barely keeping it together myself. I don’t believe you’re not affected by this. I don’t believe that you don’t care.”

“Caring doesn’t help him,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

“Of course not. But you’re human and you love him, so you can’t help it.”

“Oh, but I can,” Sherlock sneered.

“I’m not Dad, I can tell when you’re lying, so stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself.”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. “Your mother said that exact same thing to me once.”

Rosie froze. “What?”

“‘I’m not John, I can tell when you’re fibbing.’ It was right before she got married to your father.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re so much like her,” he said, his voice low.

“Dad told me about--about what happened after she died.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “What happened?”

“He got really mad at you and you locked yourself in your flat for months. Don’t pretend you don’t remember. You got really high to the point of near-death and let yourself almost get killed by Culverton Smith.” It was clear from the look on Sherlock’s face that the memory was painful to recall, but Rosie continued, eager to prove her point. “You went through _hell--_ ”

“I know.”

“--because you cared about them so much.”

Sherlock stared at her.

“You love him. Nothing you do can stop you from loving him. Don’t pretend.”

The detective seemed at loss for words.

Then, after a minute, he said, “In what manner do you mean?”

Rosie looked up from her sandwich, the one that had originally been his. “Well, I--” she stammered, uncertain. “Whichever--whichever way you want to take it.” Sherlock’s piercing blue gaze was beginning to make her uncomfortable. “I’m not--I’m not trying to--”

“It’s--It’s okay.”

“It is?”

“You’re right.”

“I… am?”

“I have to confront my feelings eventually.”

“What are you… What are you trying to say?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Even I don’t really know.”

“But you know everything.” His lips twitched in the hint of a smile.

“I don’t, not really. There are so many things I don’t know. John thinks I’m a genius, but he has the kind of knowledge that I wish I had, even though that would be an appalling waste of brain space.”

“You’re being… really cryptic. Are you saying that you… love him more than just… as… a friend?”

“Maybe.”

Always one for a dramatic exit, Sherlock chose that moment to stand and quit the kitchen.

Rosie was stunned.

That was exactly what she had thought for so many years. All the signs had always been there. She just had never expected Sherlock to admit it. Especially now, like this, to _her_ of all people.

Rosie was spared further contemplation by the sounds of the front door opening and Molly’s voice hesitantly calling to see if anyone was home.

“Sherlock? Rosie? Oh, hello.” They embraced quickly, and then pulled away. “Is Sherlock here? We need to talk.”

“Is it about Dad?”

Molly nodded, taking a shuddery breath.

Rosie led her into the main room, where Sherlock had resumed his previous position on the sofa. When they entered, he glanced at them, groaned, and sat up, hugging his knees to his chest and pushing into the corner to make space for Rosie to sit. Molly plopped into the seat across from them and dropped her bags on the floor with a heavy sigh.

“How is he doing?” Sherlock asked.

Molly shook her head. “He might only have a day or so left. We’re doing everything we can, but… We found evidence of poison in his system, and it’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. We don't know exactly how to treat it, but we're trying our best.” She looked down at her lap, where her empty hands lay folded on top of each other. Rosie could feel tears of despair welling up in her eyes. “On the upside, though, Greg told me to tell you that he took your advice and looked into John’s last patients. Look, he wrote them down for you, hold on…” She bent down and rummaged in one of her bags, at last drawing out a slip of paper. She passed it to Sherlock, who briefly scanned the list before pocketing it.

“Good?” Molly asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“Anything else Greg or I could do?”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head.

She looked to Rosie. “Are you… Are you okay?”

Of course she wasn’t okay. She had just found out that her father might die.

“Rosie, dear, I understand. It’s okay to cry.”

A tear slid down her cheek. Molly stood, motioning for Rosie to do the same. She wrapped her arms around Rosie and let the tears flow.

Rosie felt, in that moment, that she owed Molly Hooper for being the closest thing to a mother she’d ever had. She was eternally grateful.

“Rosie, go into the guest room and try to rest.”

“But--”

“Please, Rosie.”

The time seemed to tick more slowly than it ever had that night. She didn’t sleep a wink, but simply lay there in her pajamas, pretending just in case Molly or Sherlock decided to come in for whatever reason. Her thoughts raced. Thoughts of John, and Emilie, and all the things she knew about the bomber, and the events that were soon to transpire.

At eleven thirty, Rosie’s phone beeped softly. Immediately, she was out of bed, her nerves electrified and her blood on fire. Already, the sound of her own thumping heart was becoming uncomfortably loud. She changed into her carefully chosen clothes and slung her satchel over her shoulder, checking and double-checking that she had everything she needed.

She was going to save her father. John Watson was not going to die.

_John Watson will not die._

The sound of the front door opening and then shutting sent a jolt through Rosie’s body.

It briefly occurred to her that Molly might be awake, but she dismissed the thought quickly. Molly would never have let Sherlock go without a commotion.

Stealthily, she slipped out of the flat and managed to get all the way to the roof without anything going wrong.

_So far, so good._

Inhale, exhale.

One moment to calm herself, and then she set off at a brisk pace, jumping from rooftop to rooftop like an English ninja. Or maybe an assassin.

Her mother had been an assassin. Would she be proud?

She stayed consistently within view of Sherlock’s curly head, and they went on for some minutes before anything happened.

That thing was Rosie’s phone buzzing. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

_I know you’re following me. SH._

Somehow he had managed to send a text without her noticing.

She was so unprepared.

_Come down._

Rosie was happy to oblige.

“Rosie,” Sherlock said without looking at her. “It seems I truly cannot keep you away from danger.”

“You didn’t really think I was just going to stay there.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No. You are too much a reflection of your parents. But listen,” he said, stopping and turning to her, taking her hands in his. His voice, when he spoke again, was barely a whisper. “Promise me you’ll stay out of sight. If something happens to me, take the antidote and run. I’ve broken my vow once, and I can’t break it again. You _must_ stay safe.”

“Sherlock, I can’t.”

“Rosie, please. For me. For your father, who truly cannot stand to lose any more family.”

“But you _are_ family.”

“I never vowed to protect myself. I vowed to protect _you_. Please _,_ Rosamund.” He looked straight into her eyes, and she was struck by just how sad and pleading he truly was. There was no arguing anymore. She nodded.

She found herself again on a rooftop five minutes later, half-obscured by a cement wall, watching the exchange play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot express how grateful I am to Sheridan_Hope for all the support and love and help! Thank you!


	6. Gunshot

_Sherlock cautiously approached the remains of the flat. It was clear that some construction was being done, but it was paused for the night._

_Someone was shifting through the rubble anyway, however. Someone small, with curly, shoulder length hair. From her posture, Sherlock would not have said she was very happy._

_The crunching of his shoes alerted her of his presence, and she turned. She was hidden deep in shadow, and it took a moment for Sherlock to recognize her. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in._

_“Miss Hudson, you really shouldn’t be here.”_

_She stepped forward into a shaft of silver moonlight that beamed through the gaps in the broken floorboards of the story above._

_She was grinning like a maniac, teeth flashing brilliantly white against the black silhouette that was the rest of her face. The effect was eerie, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of images of the Cheshire cat, his wide, toothy smile floating in air, the only visible part of his body._

_“Why not?” she purred._

_“Because--” Sherlock gasped. “Oh, so_ you’re _our bomber.” She really was in the perfect position to do so. But… there were certain things she evidently knew that she shouldn’t have known, and how she could possibly have gotten a hold of that knowledge was beyond Sherlock’s reasoning at the present time._

_Somehow she managed to smile even wider._

_“Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes, you’ve got me. But it’s too late.”_

_“How…?” For once, words were not on his side._

_“Oh, no one expects the quiet, kindly landlady, do they?”_

_“Well, I certainly did not. I think I trusted you a little bit too much.”_

_“I thank you for that. Without your help, John might not be in hospital right now.”_

_“Why did you do this? How did you do this?”_

_“Your fatal flaw, Sherlock, is that you assume that everyone who doesn’t call you a freak is your best friend, and you trust too easily, not thinking that anyone you have let into your heart could possibly hurt you, and then before you know it you’re almost dead. It happened with Mary, and now it’s happening with me. Maybe tonight it will really be your downfall. Or maybe I’ll humor you.”_

_Sherlock reached his hand into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the cold metal of the gun._

_“I think I’ll humor you. I think you of all people will appreciate this. I don’t get nearly enough appreciation for what I do.”_

_“What_ do _you do?”_

_“I am the spider. When you tore apart Moriarty’s web, you really barely harmed it. I have repaired all the little holes you made. And I have reinforced the web with steel and expanded it more than you could possibly imagine. I am the new Moriarty, and I have been operating right under your nose ever since I took over for my mother.”_

_“Where could you have possibly--”_

_“I have always been an admirer of James Moriarty. I have always aspired to do something just as great. I met him once, when I was small. I think he liked me.”_

 

A gloved hand clapped over Rosie’s mouth.

 

_“But imagine my surprise when one day I received a book in the mail with no return address, the name Moriarty scribbled on the inside cover.”_

 

Her attacker dragged her harshly backwards. She screamed and kicked but nothing could help her now.

 

_“‘I have never been interested in being alive if I can make more trouble by being dead,’ it said, ‘and this is how you are going to help me make a heck of a lot of trouble for my greatest rival, whom I know will never die at my own hand.’”_

 

A knife was pressed against her throat.

 

_“Instructions. Oh-so-carefully hidden until the day came for him to find a successor. He knew he would die that fateful day on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. He also knew you would not.”_

 

A rough shove to her back commanded her to move forward, across the street.

 

_“And he also knew that he would never be able to give you this one final task that would break your heart.”_

_And there was Rosie, slack in the grip of a large man dressed in all black, a knife at her windpipe. Even in the darkness, Sherlock could make out the terror in her eyes._

_“Choose. There is a gun in your pocket. Shoot the girl to get the antidote, or save the girl and let John Watson die.”_

_“And what if I choose to shoot you or your accomplice instead?”_

_“I have guns everywhere. You will die, the girl will die, and the doctor will die. You must choose if you want anyone to survive.”_

_“I can see that. And what of the voice you stole? The man who called me for you?” Sherlock’s mind raced. There had to be a loophole that he could exploit, somewhere, but he didn’t see it._

_“Oh, he’s already been let go. Now_ choose.”

 

Rosie wished she had the power to communicate telepathically. She only hoped he wouldn’t shoot her before her plan was put into action.

Sherlock drew the gun. His hands were shaking.

_Sherlock, no!_

He raised the gun, but he didn’t point it at her. He didn’t point it at anyone. Something had overcome him, and the steeled, empty look behind his eyes was probably the scariest thing Rosie had ever seen, just before they settled on some unseen point of nothing in the distance.

Unless it wasn’t nothing. Something flashed behind Sherlock’s gaze, something that only people who knew him would have recognized.

He aimed the gun at Rosie’s head.

And then a gunshot echoed through the neighborhood.

Then two gunshots.

Then the world went black.

 

_Sherlock lowered his gun and stepped forward towards Rosie, who had crumpled to the ground. He pulled her away from the body of her dead attacker and did a quick check to make sure she wasn’t seriously injured. It seemed she had only collapsed from shock, but a thin line of blood glittered on her neck. Her breathing and heart rate were erratic, though they were gradually becoming more even and calm._

_He looked up. There stood Molly Hooper. She was pale and looked like she might just collapse, too. There was a gun at her feet where her shaking hand had dropped it._

_“Molly, how did you know?”_

_She shook her head, gesturing at Rosie._

_“Thank… thank you.”_

_She nodded, giving a slight smile before fainting… right into Lestrade’s arms. In his own shock, Sherlock hadn’t seen him approach._

_He also became aware at that time, as the ringing in his ears subsided, of the sounds of a helicopter and a collection of other voices all around them._

_“Lestrade, how did_ you _know?” Sherlock asked again._

_The detective inspector shrugged. “Molly told me.” He looked down at the two bodies. “So she’s our bomber, then? Your landlady?” Sherlock nodded. “Should I ask for an explanation?”_

_“Later.” Sherlock carefully set Rosie down and moved to stand over Miss Hudson’s body. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching into her pocket and drawing out a vial of what he assumed was the antidote. Holding it up to Lestrade, he clarified, “For John.”_


	7. Awake

Rosie awoke in a hospital bed, not for the first time. She felt hungry and thirsty, but otherwise fine, except that for a terrifying moment she could not recall why she was there.

“Rosie?”

Sherlock’s familiar voice soothed her nerves somewhat.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He approached her bedside and sat down. Rosie scooted backwards into a sitting position as well.

“Rosie, what happened last night before you were brought down?”

Rosie frowned, trying to remember. She snapped her fingers. “Oh! I saw snipers. A _lot_ of snipers, so I texted Molly. That was when the guy got me and dragged me across the street and put a knife to my throat. I thought… I thought you were going to shoot me. You pointed the gun at me, didn’t you?”

Sherlock looked down. “Rosie… I…”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, you don’t have to apologize.”

“But I was going to _shoot_ you.”

“Your hands were shaking so much you would have missed me anyway.” Rosie smiled. “But… I heard a gunshot, and that was the last thing I remember. What happened?”

“Molly shot them. They’re dead.”

“Molly killed them?”

“Yes.”

“What about the snipers?”

“Lestrade got them.”

“What about Dad? Did you get the antidote? How is he doing?”

Sherlock grinned. “He’s recovering quickly.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Hey, are you two, um, okay in here?” Molly poked her head in the door. Though she was smiling a little, her complexion was pasty, and alarmingly dark circles had formed under her eyes. She had just killed two people, Rosie remembered. “They just have to do a few more quick things, and then they’ll release you, okay?”

Rosie was released from the hospital and immediately came back to see her father.

John was still unconscious when Rosie, Sherlock, and Molly entered the room, but Rosie could see that the swelling and redness had gone away entirely, a good sign that lifted her spirits.

They stood in silence for a moment.

“It’s not exactly visiting if the person you’re visiting is unconscious, is it? It’s more of a viewing.”

Sherlock and Rosie both turned to look at Molly, who laughed nervously.

“Sorry.”

They all looked back at John.

His eyes were open.

He was looking at Sherlock, who stood very close by with his fingertips on the mattress.

“John!” Before anyone understood what was happening, Sherlock had swooped down and was kissing him.

_Kissing him._

Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands, not allowing him to escape despite the muffled yell that slipped out of his mouth. After a moment of struggle, John relented and brought his hands up to tangle in Sherlock’s wild hair, pulling him even closer.

Rosie gasped in surprise, and pressed her hands over her smile.

Molly tensed and turned away as if in pain.

The door clicked open, and Lestrade stepped inside. He froze, seemingly unable to decide whether he wanted to back out or ask questions.

“Um… What…?” Apparently he’d decided to ask questions. “So… I take it John’s awake, then?”

Sherlock slowly drew away from John. They both breathed heavily, like they’d just run a marathon.

The consulting detective tried to collect himself, straightening his coat and smoothing his hair as much as he could.

“Yes,” he said, attempting to sound casual and failing.

“Should I… Should we give you two a--um--a moment?”

“No, we’re uh--” Sherlock cleared his throat. “We’re fine. You can do, um, whatever it was you wanted to do.”

“No, I was just, um, checking in to see how everyone’s doing. I’m just--I’m just gonna go. Molly? What do you say we go get coffee?” Lestrade took her hand and left.

John only spoke once their footsteps had receded down the hall.

“Sherlock, what the hell?” But he wasn’t angry. He was giggling.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was pretending to be dead serious, and not very well, because the edges of his lips quirked upwards in the ghost of a smile. “John, I--I realized, when I thought you were going to die--I realized how much I--How I really--”

“You thought I was going to die?” John cut him off. “You owe me a lot of explanation.”

Sherlock told him everything. How he was poisoned, the call, the meeting at Baker Street, the news about Miss Hudson and how she died, everything, omitting only the part where Rosie was almost shot.

Rosie didn’t bother to speak up. She would rather forget it happened at all; she knew what it would do to all of them to have John aware that his best friend almost murdered his daughter.

The doctor listened to the entire story with careful attention. At the end of the ordeal, he was speechless.

After a few minutes of the threesome silently processing all of the information, John said, “Has anyone else noticed that as soon as I fall unconscious or get kidnapped or something everything just kind of goes to shit?”

Sherlock chuckled.

John leaned over and peered across Sherlock to where Rosie stood, holding out his arms. “I’m sure Sherlock isn’t the only one who was worried about me.” Rosie hugged him. “Hey,” he added, under his breath, “are you okay? I mean, with Emilie and everything?” Rosie nodded.

“I’ll be okay.”

And for once, Rosie really believed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sheridan_Hope for all her and help support throughout the entirety of the long and difficult process of finishing this story! She's written a short sequel from the perspective of Mycroft titled, "Mycroft Cannot Handle Sherlock's Love Life." Be sure to check it out!


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